Free Public Enemies by Bryan Burrough Page A

this was a face he had seen in the newspapers—and then he realized who his customer was. Before Bitzer could do anything, another man entered the garage. “Looks like it’s been traveling pretty fast,” said the man, motioning toward the Pontiac. Floyd looked up at the stranger. It was the new county sheriff, Jack Killingsworth. A former Bitzer salesman in his sixth month as Polk County Sheriff, Killingsworth often dropped by his old dealership for coffee. That morning he was wearing neither uniform, badge, nor gun. As Killingsworth’s eyes fixed on Floyd’s face, he recognized him from the Wanted posters in his office.
    But Adam Richetti recognized Killingsworth, too, from trips to Boliver to visit his brother. He stepped to the Pontiac, opened the backdoor, and grabbed a submachine gun hidden under a blanket. He whipped out the gun and trained it on Killingsworth. “That’s the law!” Richetti barked to Floyd. To the half-dozen salesmen and mechanics milling about in the garage, Richetti shouted, “Line up against the wall! If you try to get away, we will kill you!”
    Joe Richetti stepped in front of Killingsworth as his brother turned the machine gun toward the sheriff. “If you’re going to shoot the sheriff, you’ll have to shoot me first,” he said.
    Adam, who had now been swilling moonshine for three hours, appeared confused. “All right, get him out of here, then,” he said, motioning to the sheriff. Killingsworth walked toward the garage door, Richetti poking the machine gun in his back. Killingsworth reached the door, opened it, and then felt the cold touch of a pistol against his temple. “Take one more step and I’ll kill you,” said Floyd.
    Inexplicably, Richetti began cursing at the sheriff, urging him out the door. Floyd cut him off. “That liquor is getting the best of you,” he snapped. Floyd maneuvered the sheriff inside, where he joined the employees against the garage wall. Floyd apologized. “This is life and death for us. We had to do [this].”
    Floyd had to move fast before the situation spun out of control. While Richetti covered the hostages, he stuck his head out of the garage door. There were no signs of additional lawmen or alarm. Stepping back inside, Floyd covered the hostages while Richetti stepped to his brother Joe’s new Chevrolet sedan. Inside, Floyd motioned for Killingsworth to come with him.
    “Why take me?” the sheriff asked.
    “You know all the roads and can keep me off the highways,” Floyd said.
    The two outlaws, assuming a posse would soon be on their tails, loaded their guns into the Chevrolet. Floyd and Killingsworth slipped into the backseat while Richetti slid behind the wheel. As they drove off, Floyd hollered out the window to Richetti’s brother: “You can have my car, Joe!”
    Richetti steered the sedan west, streaking out of town. “You know the roads,” he yelled at Killingsworth. “Get us out of here!”
    “Where do you want to go?” the sheriff asked.
    “Kansas City.”

Hot Springs, Arkansas 11:30 A.M.
    That same Friday morning, as Pretty Boy Floyd raced toward Kansas City, two agents of the Bureau of Investigation cruised the downtown streets of Hot Springs, Arkansas, looking for a fugitive. The Roman-nosed agent behind the wheel was Joe Lackey; beside him sat a white-haired, grand-fatherly Cowboy named Frank Smith, a former Dallas police officer. They had driven from their office in Oklahoma City to check a tip that the old yegg Frank Nash was in town. The information was dead-on: though close to Karpis and the Barkers, Nash had chosen an Arkansas vacation over a role in the Hamm kidnapping.
    In the summer of 1933, Hot Springs was a corrupt resort town famed for the red carpet it rolled out for vacationing gangsters who came from across the country to enjoy its mineral baths and freewheeling casinos: Al Capone and a long line of New York crime lords were among its infamous guests. The town’s main thoroughfare, Central Avenue, cut